


What Dreams May Come

by illwick



Series: In Between [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:59:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9275012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: In the days between "The Six Thatchers" and "The Dying Detective," Sherlock and John reflect upon their past as they struggle to make sense of the uncertain future.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the first time in this series, I'm strongly recommending that you read the previous parts before proceeding with this one. There's plenty of smutty porn below if that's what you came for, but certain references and situations really only make sense in the context of the canon as I've established it up until this point. And DON'T WORRY! There's smutty porn in the rest of the series, too!!!
> 
> This one is set in the time between TST and TLD.

The dreams are relentless.

The first one had come about three weeks before Rosie was born, when he and Sherlock were truly hitting their stride again. Sure, the events at Appledore and Sherlock's subsequent relapse were still fresh in John's mind, but Sherlock was really, truly doing _well_. And somehow, against all odds, even Mary had found a place in their dynamic that made it feel neither forced nor strained. John had begun to believe, hope against hope, that a sort of peace may yet be possible for the lot of them.

The night after watching Sherlock solve two cases on Skype simultaneously, John had headed home with a pep in his step. He'd cooked dinner for Mary, they'd watched an episode of that baking show she loved so dearly, and gone to bed content.

It was all for nothing, though; simply the false calm before his treacherous mind ushered in the inevitable storm.

John dreamed of that first time with the handcuffs, years ago, before the Fall. Sherlock had knicked them off of Lestrade during a case and, on the cab ride home, revealed them to John and informed him that upon arriving home, John was to cuff him to the headboard and make him beg.

John's brain had gone offline for a moment. That's how it always was when Sherlock got into one of his particularly filthy moods. He seemed to have a knack for catching John completely off-guard, and flooring him with obscene demands that sent John's imagination reeling. And when those demands were uttered in Sherlock's baritone voice...God, John had been shocked he hadn't gotten them arrested during the foreplay in the back of the cab alone.

But they'd made it back to the flat, overpaid the cabbie, staggered up the stairs without waking Mrs. Hudson (with only the briefest of pauses to grope each other on the landing), and he'd divested Sherlock of his clothes in record time.

It was as good as he'd anticipated. The contrast of metal against the porcelain skin at Sherlock's wrists, the way his violinist's fingers whitened as he gripped the chain helplessly, how the sinew of his arms strained and his back arched gloriously as John pummeled into him. How vulnerable he looked as he stared up at John through glassy eyes, splayed out before him like a feast for the taking. How he begged as John twisted his nipples mercilessly, and came untouched on John's command. It was beyond any fantasy John's delirious mind had ever dared to spin. He'd come so hard himself that his vision blurred and he'd worried his shout would wake Mrs. Hudson.

As he'd come down from the endorphin high, he'd reached for the key to the handcuffs, carelessly strewn on the bedside table.

"Leave it."

John turned to look at Sherlock. His eyes were still closed, he was glistening with sweat, and his hair was a tangled mess.

"Sorry, leave...what?"

"The cuffs."

"Um...why?"

Sherlock turned his head slowly towards John, but still didn't open his eyes. He nuzzled his cheek lazily into the pillow, looking criminally blissed-out.

"'m not done yet."

"...I'm pretty sure we both finished. And yes, I am a doctor, so I'm pretty confident about that."

"I want to go again."

"Sherlock, I haven't eaten in over 12 hours, you haven't eaten since God-knows-when, we're both filthy as sin, and I just need to let the adrenaline and...whatever it was we were drinking at that bar burn off."

"So go rinse off, have a snack, watch some telly, down a few glasses of water. I'll be here when you're ready."

"I...um...alright?" John had been admittedly flummoxed, but Sherlock seemed so relaxed and confident in his demand that it seemed unnecessarily contrarian to pick a fight with him. 

"Just let me check the circulation in your hands before I leave you here. Wasn't exactly my first priority when getting these things on." He'd reached up and tested both of Sherlock's hands; they were warm and responsive to the touch, no signs of restricted bloodflow, and Sherlock sighed happily beneath him.

"Alright, I'll be right next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?"

"No reason."

So John had rinsed off in the loo, made himself a sandwich and filled up a pint glass with water, and settled onto the sofa to watch a rerun of Dr. Who.

Of course, all of this was done with feigned casualness. How was he supposed to focus on food or crap telly when Sherlock was just one room over, debauched and restrained, just waiting for him to return? But this seemed to be part of whatever game Sherlock was playing, so he'd forced himself to get a refill on the water and finish once more glass. By that point, his member had given up all feigned nonchalance and had already risen to the occasion. Unable to wait any longer, he sauntered back into Sherlock's room.

"Jesus..." The room still reeked of sex, and Sherlock looked like sin personified. His legs were splayed obscenely and he was fully erect--so hard it looked almost painful, red and aching. The come from their previous go-around was still smeared across him. His arms strained against the cuffs brilliantly.

Sherlock had turned to him, eyes now bright and hungry, his smile just this side of wicked. "Ready for more?"

"Oh God, yes."

John's dream had replayed all of this in devastating detail. Usually in dreams there were details that changed, making the experience strange and unnerving and surreal--but not in this dream. He simply relived that entire night (all three rounds of it) blow-by-blow. He woke up hard and aching, Mary peacefully asleep beside him.

He'd done what any respectable husband would do: he'd gone to the bathroom and taken care of it, and gone back to bed.

But six nights later, it was another dream, again a playback of one of his more memorable encounters with Sherlock. Sherlock had thrown a great snit in John's favourite restaurant, the owner had threatened to ban them for life, and on the way back to Baker Street John had finally had enough. He'd grabbed Sherlock by the scarf, pulled him close, and muttered "BEHAVE yourself while we're in public, or so help me, I will tie you up with this thing and make you pay." He'd expected Sherlock to fight back, perhaps even physically, but what he hadn't expected is for Sherlock's lip to quirk in that way it always did when he had one of his great ideas, a fire in his eyes that John and only recently begun to recognize.

So he'd marched Sherlock back to their flat, ordered him to disrobe, tied his hands behind his back with his scarf, forced him to his knees, and shoved himself down Sherlock's throat with the kind of confidence he'd only gained after Sherlock started demanding it of him.

And oh God, it had been glorious. Sherlock on his knees, on the siting room floor, bare and gorgeous save for that preposterous scarf of his, lips stretched obscenely as he took everything John gave him, moaning for more.

John had come on his face, then knelt beside him and jerked him off, fast and hard, as Sherlock panted lavish open-mouthed kisses against John's neck, shaking with the blazing intensity of it all.

Again, John awoke panting and feverish, and retired to the bathroom.

The next morning, Mary had asked him if the nightmares were back.

And God, wouldn't that have been easier? Somehow gunfire and blood and death seemed so much more manageable than admitting that he was re-living all of the most torrid sexual encounters that he and Sherlock had shared during their brief time together all those years ago.

Mary deserved so much better. She'd been so understanding about his past with Sherlock, so respectful of that secret, and so encouraging of the burgeoning friendship between Sherlock and John that was only beginning to blossom from the pile of ash it had been only a few short months ago.

He tried to psychoanalyze his way out of it. The whole situation only made sense, after all; he was a living, breathing man, and he had needs, just like every other man. Needs that he wasn't completely comfortable asking his 8-months-pregnant wife to satisfy, on top of everything else.

But if he was completely honest with himself, had his sex life with Mary truly been that satisfying before? He supposed they'd barely had time to really figure it out. They'd certainly excelled at the passionate-lovemaking period that seemed to come standard at the beginning of most serious relationships, but the decision to marry had been made swiftly--he knew what he and Mary shared was worth keeping, and he didn't want to wait. Then things got a bit side-railed with the return of Sherlock, and then the wedding (and pregnancy), and the revelation of the nature of John's past with Sherlock, then of course the whole AGRA business had come along and John and Mary had separated and by the time they'd reconciled...well, it wasn't like that seemed like an ideal time to propose exploring new kinks.

But regardless of all that, John assured himself that his subconscious was just projecting. Projecting his repressed sexual desires onto Sherlock, who was now back in John's life full-force, vibrant and consuming as always. The dreams would surely subside once the baby arrived and John's attention was re-directed.

Except they didn't. Instead, his traitorous subconscious seemed to double down, plaguing him with the erotic dreams nearly every night, even when he was barely able to sleep for more than an hour at a time without being awoken by Rosie's cries. In one particularly mortifying instance, he'd dreamed about that time he'd fucked Sherlock over the arm of the sofa still wearing his Belstaff, only to awaken from his nap to find himself in 221B, on the very sofa featured in his dream, Sherlock right in front of him entertaining Rosie with her favourite stuffed rattle. John felt like a right pervert, having a dream like that next to his napping wife, while the subject of his dream entertained his beloved daughter not half a room away. What the hell was wrong with him?

And then he met the woman on the bus. God help him. He didn't even like her that much. But she giggled girlishly as they texted about fuzzy handcuffs, she sent him a devilish wink emoji as he threatened her with a spanking, and was overall game for any of the lightly kinky suggestions he made. He never pushed it much beyond that, not into the realm of what he and Sherlock had done, but just texting about the bare minimum had made the dreams stop.

He felt guilty, of course. He felt like shit, lower than shit, texting like this behind his wife's back while she cared for their infant daughter. But...surely it was better than the alternative? Better than if he'd done what his subconscious seemed to want him to do, to take back up with Sherlock, push him into the bedroom after they'd solved one of their cases and take him apart over and over just like he had back before the Fall and everything that came after. Because that, after everything Mary had done for him, was surely the ultimate betrayal. There could be no clawing his way back from that, no redemption for a treason that deep. The woman from the bus was a simple betrayal. Sherlock would be...Sherlock would be the end of it all.

So the bad dreams stop and life goes on and John goes back to dreaming of gunfire and blood and death like a respectable man should, because God damn it, he will not let Sherlock ruin this for him. Not this. Please, God. Not this.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock dreams of waking.

The first time it happens is the first time he allows himself to fall asleep after Mary's death. He'd been fighting it for days, with caffeine and nicotine patches and experiments and his violin, anything, ANYTHING to keep himself from surrendering. But finally he can't fight it any longer, and lies down on the sofa in the sitting room, making sure to leave his neck at an awkward angle against the armrest. That way he can be sure he won't be asleep for too long.

He closes his eyes and lets the darkness circle, like a foreboding whirlpool, pulling him under.

His eyes snap open, and he is awake. But not in reality. Instead, he appears to have awoken in a memory.

It's morning in 221B, and he's in his bed, and John is beside him, tousled and sleep-soaked and serene, gazing down at him.

Sherlock's mind flips through his archives quickly. There are only so many mornings this could be. He and John had only slept in the same bed after penetrative sex (one of the dozens of unspoken rules of their relationship), and they'd only committed that act at Baker Street a handful of times. He looks around for further cues, but as it turns out, he doesn't need to.

"Morning, sleepyhead. How're you feeling? Not too sore? I know last night was a bit...rougher...than we usually..." John falters, his face reddening with embarrassment.

Oh, it was _that_ morning. The morning after John finally indulged Sherlock's #1 fantasy, of John taking him bent over the sofa, unprepared, as soon as they walked in the door after solving a case. John had even made him keep his coat on. God, it had been _exquisite_.

"No, no, I'm fine. Better than fine, perfect," he hears himself reply, stretching languidly.

"Good. Was it...what you wanted?"

"Did I not make it clear last night when I made enough noise that Mrs. Hudson was banging on her ceiling with a broom to get me to shut up?"

John groans and buries his face in the pillow. "Oh GOD, I didn't even notice. I'm never going to be able to look her in the eye again."

"Don't be so horrified. Hardly the worst noises I've made with or without you around, she probably assumed I just spilled acid and got it in my eye again. Or was harpooning another pig." Sherlock laughs and John turns his head to grin over at him. Partners in crime.

John sighs. "Alright, I'm famished. I'm going to go make toast. Want some?"

"I could eat."

John gets up and pulls on his boxers and pads from the room. Sherlock lies in bed, blissed out and mellow, and waits for the sound of the kettle. He closes his eyes.

And wakes. He's on the sofa, a torrential rain beating the window outside. His neck hurts. 

The reality of it all comes flooding back to him. It's the day of Mary's funeral. Mrs. Hudson will have left already. He is really, truly alone.

He doesn't sleep for four more days after that. It's the longest he's gone without sleeping (well, the longest he's gone without sleeping while _clean_ , which he supposes should be a separate category), but by the fifth day he's delirious and shaking and he knows it's a battle he can't fight much longer.

This time he retreats to his bedroom. Maybe if he just lets himself go for 14 hours--14 tortuous, wasted hours-- maybe it will give him the fortitude to make it another 4 days after that.

He wakes in Cornwall.

Again, he's in bed with John, but the setting is distinct and easy to identify. They're in the one-room cottage they shared for those four blissful days on the coast, and he's curled up next to John in the luxurious king-sized bed, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore and sunlight streaming through the picture windows.

John is still asleep. Sherlock's face feels warm, hot--oh _right_ , he'd had that _blasted_ sunburn from the day they'd gone to the beach, and John had spent the rest of the holiday smearing him with aloe every chance he got. But for now, John is still sleeping, and Sherlock seizes the opportunity to really, truly look at him, without worrying he'll come off as creepy or imposing (which he suspects he would if he examined John this closely while he was awake--it's undoubtedly more than a bit _not good_ ). But John's asleep now, no harm, no foul.

Sherlock traces the edges of the scar on John's shoulder with his finger. He knows John is self-conscious about the scar, so he tries not to look at it, tries not to touch it when John will notice. But for now, he stares, and lets his fingers roam, John's skin glowing in the early morning sun.

He thinks about fate. It's a stupid thought, he knows--he doesn't believe in destiny, he believes in reason and probability and calculated outcomes--but he thinks in that moment about the sniper who delivered that bullet into John Watson's shoulder. Where is he now, Sherlock wonders? And how sick is it that he wants to thank him?

Ironic, he supposes, that it took John getting shot to bring him here. And now all Sherlock wants is to protect him. He couldn't lose John Watson. _He could not lose John Watson._

And for the first time in his life, in that moment, Sherlock is burdened with the weight of having something to lose. The reality of it is breathtaking, crippling, and for a moment he feels like his heart misses a beat. He knows this isn't _sentiment_ \--he's well above that, of course. But this feels like _fear_. 

Not the type of fear he felt in Baskerville: the nauseating unease of his perception of reality askew and his sense of self adrift. But a type of fear he was quite unaccustomed to, the type that rooted itself in the pit of his stomach and spread its tendrils across his heart, shortening his breathing and causing his fingers to grasp possessively at John's shoulder, to curl in closer and tighter on John as if he could somehow bury himself inside him if he only held on hard enough.

Sherlock feels John startle awake abruptly. Sherlock loosens his grip instantly and feigns sleep. John shakes himself and rolls over and resumes dozing. Sherlock closes his eyes.

Sherlock wakes. He's alone again.

That day, he makes an appointment with John's therapist. He says he's been having a reoccurring dream.

He sits in the chair but can't find the words to tell her about it. So he mines her for information, instead. Much easier.

Two days later, he finds the DVD from Mary hidden in his pile of mail. He watches it. He knows what he has to do. In one last-ditch effort he tries to see John, but Molly turns him away. He knows then without question that Mary was right.

He sends a text. Billy says he can be over that evening with some product. Sherlock has some time to kill.

He hasn't slept in three days. Would it...would it be selfish to nap? Would it be selfish to allow himself one more _good_ dream, one more memory, before resuming the sick, twisted nightmares and contorted hellscapes that plague his dreams when he's high? Whatever is allowing his subconscious to transport him into these memories, it has been a _gift_ , his saving grace, the only thing that's kept him from going mad despite the cruelty of the reality he's found himself in.

He decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He lies down on the sofa, and waits.

He wakes again in a memory. He's in bed next to John. They're in 221B, after another rare night of bliss. John is shaking him gently.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

"Mrph."

"Come on. We've been asleep for almost 12 hours. You haven't had food since Thursday, and there's not a bloody thing to eat in this flat."

Sherlock groans. "You go to the shops, then. 'm sleeping."

John shakes him again. "No you don't. Come on, let's get up. It's gorgeous outside, the temperature's finally up, we won't freeze our bollocks off the minute we step outdoors. Let's go."

"Go _where_."

"Something tells me you need dumplings."

Sherlock opens one eye. John grins.

"Aaaaaah, I've said the magic word, haven't I? Come on. You know you need some."

Sherlock scrunches up his face. "Get me some to go!"

"You know as well as I do they're rubbish unless they're eaten fresh. And here I thought you were some sort of genius."

Sherlock half-heartedly throws a pillow at him. John easily bats it away, then reaches for the bedside table.

"I know what'll get you out of bed," John grins slyly.

Sherlock closes his eyes again and rolls onto his side to curl up against John, throwing an arm across John's bare chest, issuing an exasperated sigh. "And what's that," he mutters into the warm flesh of John's pec, firm beneath his lips.

"Bit of blackmail." Sherlock's eyes open, and he sees what John has grabbed. It's Sherlock's polaroid camera, the one he used to solve the case yesterday, after three days of non-stop experiments. There's still some film left in it, and John is extending his arm and turning it around, angling the lens towards the both of them.

"You wouldn't dare," says Sherlock, but John is grinning up at the camera and Sherlock suddenly can't help but smile up at him, and there's a click and a flash and the sound of the film ejecting, and then John is running out of the room, shaking the picture and cackling with glee.

"Oooooh, this is GOOD. You look like a cuddly kitten, Holmes, no one at the Yard is going to take you seriously if they see your coif in this state," he shouts from the sitting room.

Sherlock runs after him, stopping only briefly to grab his dressing gown, but John is too quick. By the time Sherlock gets to the sitting room, John is empty-handed.

"Alright, Watson. Where is it."

"You're the consulting detective. You tell me."

Sherlock stands perfectly still, and pauses to begin his deductions. But at that moment, his stomach lets out a rumble so loud that both he and John burst out laughing.

"Fine, you win this round. We'll get dumplings. But the second we get back here you're giving me that picture to destroy, or else."

"Or else what?" John smirks.

"I might just have to make you pay." And with a wink and a twirl, Sherlock retreats to his bedroom to change. Five minutes later they step outside into the warm spring morning.

The doorbell wakes him this time. It's Billy. He comes upstairs with the product, and Sherlock invites him to stay for a round. Billy hands him the syringe. Sherlock hesitates.

"Somethin' wrong, mate?"

Sherlock realizes his hand is shaking. "It's...it's going to hurt."

"Only the first time. After that, you're too blissed out to notice, you remember."

But that's not the hurt he's talking about. God knows, he wishes the prick of the needle were the only thing he had to fear. But the real hurt is worse, so much worse than that. He has to march through the gates of Hell.

Mary was right. Surely she would have told him if there were another way. But there isn't, they both know John too well. This is it, and this is all there ever was and all there ever could be.

He pierces his vein. He's right. It hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My last post before the conclusion of S4! Hope you enjoy.


End file.
